Century Sleep
by Nistelle
Summary: [FF6] About Celes, based on a familiar story. Also apparently hard to write a summary for. May the be first in a series!


**Century Sleep**

by Nistelle  
nistelle (at) gmail (dot) com

When a girl at last was born to the Royal Family, a beautiful golden-haired child, the Emperor rejoiced. Surely this would be the heir he had wanted for so long, the daughter to inherit his Empire one day. She was so precious that every precaution was taken for her safety.

But the Emperor was wise; he knew that to try to avoid all danger was futile, and would only assure the little princess's downfall. Such had been the mistake with the children who had come before. To become acquainted with peril personally, intimately: that was the better way.

So the princess knew the needle from the day she was born. On the morning of her name-day, twelve of the world's most respected scientists gathered together, and with the prick of a sanitized syringe set her to sleep through the presentation of her gifts -- the most marvelous gifts. Not only grace and beauty, song and wisdom, riches and power, but others, too -- fellowship with snow and ice, dominion over life and death.

Alas that they didn't realize their mistake: such gifts don't come without a price. And so it was that the princess was forced to pay that price, struck down in the full bloom of her youth and splendor.

But while she should have died, she did not die. Instead, she fell into a deep, profound sleep. And this is what she dreamed.

ּ •ּ

One thousand twenty times, the princess dreams that she has been cursed with eternal slumber. She's pricked her finger on an enchanted needle and swooned softly to the floor. Now, she lies upon perfumed silks and satins, her skin smooth and perfect as alabaster, eternally lovely in her eternal stillness. Her court, the whole world, sleeps with her.

One hundred years pass. A prince comes upon her; he is stricken by her beauty, and kisses her awake. All the court rejoices.

ּ •ּ

Five hundred and fourteen times, the princess dreams she is watching herself sleep. She sees herself nestled among full and fragrant roses, preserved as if in glass, breathing the heavy-scented air with such delicacy that the rise and fall of her chest almost cannot be seen. Beside her is the prince, his head buried in his hands, rocking back and forth, weeping soundlessly. He is so consumed in his grief that he has forgotten to wake her. The princess tries to tell him, but her lips are as weak as rose petals; they flutter faintly only once, as if in a tiny breeze, before they are still again. The prince never notices.

ּ •ּ

Two hundred and eight times, the princess dreams of thorns. Like a slow-flowing stream, they grow in thick rings through her room and around her bed, twining around her arms and legs. But they grow so slowly and so gently that they only barely brush her skin. Soon they fill the castle; soon they fill the world. Somehow, even in sleep, the princess finds herself touched by their steadfast loyalty, their fierce protection.

But then a voice calls her name from beyond the thorn-dimmed bedchamber. The princess wakes suddenly when she hears it, and cries out from the pain.

ּ •ּ

Sixty-three times, the princess dreams of waking to find the world still fast asleep. The court lies sprawled in the gardens, across the walls, on the ground; she has to step carefully to avoid them. Dry and dusty bramble vines snake through the castle and the grounds, their spines as long and lean as spindles.

The princess pricks her fingers on every one she can find. Surely one will make her sleep again. Surely it cannot be time to wake to this. The blood runs from her hands as she searches and searches.

ּ •ּ

Eleven times she dreams a memory.

Green grass. Cool wind. Laughter in the distance. A picnic on a hill. A voice next to her, a warmth beside her.

Then she dreams of how she would have wished it to be. She dreams of climbing onto his warmth, the wind in their hair, a question on his mouth, on her mouth, on their lips. She dreams of touch. She dreams of solidness, softness, heat.

ּ •ּ

Four times, the world awakes without the prick of a kiss. In the bright light of morning, her court stares at each other in confusion. None of them knew this was a possibility.

When they see the princess, they must turn their heads away in embarrassment. How ridiculous she looks now, struggling down the stairs, dragging yards of wrinkled fabric behind her. How tragic that now, with those open eyes so hollow, those moving lips dry and thin, she has lost forever the flawless beauty she once had. How much of her is unpleasant now. The shame is unbearable.

Fortunately, the princess knows what to do. She knows where to find the justice denied her. Everything is carefully prepared: a melancholy lullaby is sung at her passing, lilies and baby's-breath gathered and spread at the edge of the pond. All must be quiet, everything pure when the princess walks into the dark water.

The princess, weighed down by silk and velvet, will sink directly; there will be no struggle, no thrashing, no ugly choking or coughing or breaking of the water's serene surface. And later, when she is retrieved, she will be sublimely pale and beautifully motionless. None of her frozen features will be terrified, or bloated, or bruised; nothing drowned. Her body will have found perfect peace.

The court is delighted. But then again, to them, beauty in death is the much the same as beauty in sleep. In truth, they cannot tell the difference.

ּ •ּ

Once, she dreams this.

The years pass, the decades pass, with no change. The princess, in her long sleep, is troubled; she frowns and mutters. At last, in the last minute of the last day of the hundredth year, a tiny chill runs through her, and she opens her eyes.

It's dusk: cold, and very quiet. The princess walks through the castle, searching for the prince who surely woke her, but he can't be found. No one at all can be found. The entire castle is empty, the gardens bare. Everyone is gone, long gone. Somehow, it seems, the princess has awoken on her own, after a century of waiting for a kiss that never came.

At the molding stone arch, she stops. The world beyond the castle gates is cold and desolate. It stretches on and on, past the darkness of the horizon. The princess shivers.

Of course she cannot leave. She must stay here, in case the prince comes. She must stay and wait for him, for as long as it takes.

But things are not as they were supposed to be. She is alone, all alone, and the castle has crumbled to dust. What if, she wonders, this too is wrong? What if, she wonders, it is now the prince who waits for her?

The sun has set. The cold wind pricks her skin. But the princess no longer waits: she walks on.


End file.
